Being out in the rain made me realize that I hardly ever go outside when it's raining. And yet, I *claim* to like rain sounds. In Japan, during the rainy season, you still lived your regular life, just under a series of umbrellas (well, for me it was a series, because I'd accidentally leave them behind whenever it cleared up). You walked to the train station, past the lush gardens, the convenience stores, the tofu shop, the beer vending machines, the rice fields, the Chanel boutiques, the tucked-away temples, all to the accompaniment of rain on your umbrella. It was loveliness itself.
Last summer when I visited, I stayed a couple nights in the small town of Ikaruga, not far from Nara ("Ikaruga" is apparently also the name of a shooting video game, based on my Google search...). It looked like this:
Of course, I didn't see it from quite that angle. Anyway, it rained the whole time I was there. The family I was staying with was, of course, personally responsible for the rain, and they apologized constantly, as they should have. When I first arrived, the mom told me I couldn't see my room because of the rain. I imagined that it must have had a gaping hole in the ceiling. After dinner, when the rain had slowed to a drizzle, she picked up my suitcase and led me down the hall to a sliding door leading to a lovely garden. Complex slipper-changing took place, then she led me through the garden on a path of stones, onto a wooden ledge, into a different pair of slippers, through another sliding door, into a beautiful free-standing traditional tatami room. It was so perfect. That night I lay on the futon, thinking about the randomness of my being there, in that room, in that family's home who I'd never met until that day, and I listened to the rain and inhaled the smell of wet wood, and was happy.
Here is a slice of the garden that led to my room:
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